


chicken soup

by fishysama



Series: goretober 2020!!! [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Family Dinners, Fist Fights, Gore, Goretober, Goretober 2020, Guro, Implied Relationships, LMAO, M/M, Murder, Night Terrors, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishysama/pseuds/fishysama
Summary: goretober day 2: nightmarestwo dads teach their daughter how to cook : )
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: goretober 2020!!! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950796
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	chicken soup

**Author's Note:**

> finally rewatching hannibal, hence there will be a lot of them this year lol 🥺 i missed them a lot....

A swift, gold flash of the pendulum. Cops gone. Will gone. Abigail’s body on the floor, throat slashed so deeply you can taste the tendons. Fear brings the eyes half out of her head. Her arms outstretched with desperation, fingers curled and distorted. Clutching onto something that was no longer there. Someone. Her mouth wide, the dried blood crusted on her chin becomes liquid again. Desolately, it drips onto the dark wood floor.

Another flash: Abigail's cooking in her kitchen. She hums as she stirs the pot; once moldy and rotten chicken soup turns fragrant and full as the pendulum swings. She stands unbalanced—putting the weight on her tiptoes with one leg, twisting busily at the ankle.

Will enters the apartment; the door was left open for him. Abigail was expecting him to come. She  _ wanted  _ him to come. The purpose of this meeting wasn’t just the chicken soup, although that was part of the offer. They needed to talk. It was important.

Abigail is never the type to specify when her talks will be important.  _ “Was.” _ She  _ was _ never the type.

Will takes a seat at the dining room table. He calculates her every move, finding pleasure in studying her form, the unique, particular way she does everything. The particularity of her ankle twisting, of her hums.

She beckons him. This is not for the important conversation, but for help with the meal. Our killer is a chef. Will is a chef then, bringing a tasting spoon of the broth to his lips. He comments to add a splash of lemon juice and a half-teaspoon of sugar. It’s too salty.

Then Will is behind her, training her how to cut the carrots properly, placing his hand over hers. He is particular about the presentation, the exact size and shape of each of the ingredients. To be enjoyed, a meal must be perfect. Together, they chop down on the orange flesh, creating a stack of small cylinders. Abigail is still afraid of the knife. Will wants to change that.

But before he can do that, Will is on the sidelines, watching into the kitchen from the dining room. He blinks, disoriented for a moment before seeing what’s in front of him. Hannibal: rosewood suit jacket discarded on the back of a chair in the dining room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, teaching Abigail where to cut. Will watches idly, admiring his body. Momentarily, he forgets about the present crime scene: his daughter brutally killed in her own kitchen, far away from any Garret Jacob Hobbs. A girl that was supposed to be freed of her fears.

It happens so quickly, Will can’t tell if there’s a word exchanged or a thread snapped or what. Hannibal takes the knife off the cutting board, tearing Abigail's hand from it in the same instance. He whips Abigail around, taking the knife to her throat. They both face Will: stricken by fear and dread, his lover’s jacket draped over his shoulder. His lover draped over Abigail, daring to pierce her neck’s skin, slowly putting pressure. Abigail looks at nothing. Hannibal looks straight at Will.

Will doesn’t see Garret Jacob Hobbs in him, though. The image is purely Hannibal. Hannibal’s face, not wicked and cruel, but placid. The real evil lurks in the stillest of ponds.

“See, Will?”

“Will?”

“Will, wake up.”

Will lurches up in bed so quickly it almost catapults him off the edge, bites so hard on his tongue that he tastes blood. He swings his head to the clock. 3:47 A.M. His nails are deeply embedded in his thighs, shirt soaked in sweat. Yes, this. But it wasn’t a nightmare. Will is sure of that.

Will shudders, unsettlingly removing the half-moons of his fingernails from his thighs. Quavering, he brings them up to his face in fists. He tries desperately to inhale.

“It’s okay, Will,” says a voice that makes him nauseous. Hannibal goes to touch his neck, but—

Hannibal clutches onto Will’s fist, inches away from a concussion. “Don’t be violent, Will. It was a nightmare.”

“You killed her! You killed her!” Will tries to swing with the other arm, marooned in the place between the superego and id, reality and nightmare.

“Will.” Hannibal twists Will’s arms around his back, pressing his face into the headboard, immobilizing him. On top of the other terrible thoughts, _ where did he learn to defend himself like this? _ “Breathe.”

_ It’s 3:48 A.M. I’m in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My name is Will Graham. _ He curls his neck against the headboard, unable to control himself from thrashing.  _ My name is Will Graham. You killed her. You killed her. _

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://juroguro.tumblr.com/)


End file.
